Chapter 17
I set my empty glass down on the weathered bar top at Treehouse, breaking my promise to myself about getting drunk. In my defense, I made that promise when I still had a place to live and a delusional belief that my mom had faith in my ability to start a career.
I showed up here absurdly early—possibly the first time I’ve seen this bar in the daylight.
It’s hidden behind an auto repair shop, in an alley off another alley.
If a Hollywood set decorator had come in with the directive to “create a ramshackle venue incorporating every possible visual marker of a dive bar,” they couldn’t have done better than this place—dark paneled walls, a haphazard assortment of ephemera, a few strings of Christmas lights intermingled with cobwebs, and a sound system that occasionally catches on fire during shows.
In summer, the place develops a tropical climate, which is appropriate considering that the “venue” part of the space is largely dominated by an actual tree.
I’ve been coming here since I got my first fake ID.
I’m aware that smelling like anything other than stale beer at Treehouse is an exercise in futility.
This is a place where I sweat profusely and accept that my makeup will slide down my face and my hair will transmute into a frizzy triangle by the time I exit.
And yet, here I am, having taken an everything shower and put on my good underwear, hoping that makeup sex is in my future.
To my surprise, Hal also shows up early—something I’ve never experienced in three years of knowing him. He greets me with a hug, which feels wonderful and reaffirming until he presses his hand into my back and I feel how sweaty I’ve gotten in just a half hour of sitting at the bar.
“What literary masterpiece are we lauding tonight?” I ask, hoping it’s not some recent grad’s poetry collection.
“She’s legit,” Hal says, handing me a flier. “She did a workshop in my Political Violence in Contemporary Fiction seminar. She’s an NEA fellow. The New Yorker ran an excerpt of her book.”
I read the title out loud: “ ‘The Apotheosis of the Incomplete’? Are you sure she didn’t just ask ChatGPT to generate the name of a pretentious novel? Is there punctuation in this one?”
He gives me a look like I’ve committed some offense.
“Oh.” I tilt my head, analyzing his expression. “You’re serious about this. You genuinely want to be here, celebrating”—I glance at the flier again—“Leen Zweig.”
“I’m about to shop my manuscript around,” he says. “And I’d like to do it while I’m still eligible to win a Young Lion. So yes, I’m trying to do more networking. Get back into the community. Show up at events.”
“Okay. Sorry,” I say. “I’m in a shitty mood. I got into this whole thing with my mom as I was leaving.”
“Did she find your pipe or something?”
“She and Perry are moving to Portugal after the wedding. They want to explore a different lifestyle.”
“You should go live in your mom’s office in Portugal,” Hal says.
“I don’t think I’m invited.” I jab my cocktail straw at the sad lime wedge at the bottom of my drink. “Didn’t Portugal tell Americans, ‘Please go away, we don’t want American digital nomads here anymore’?”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Hal says, glancing around the bar, which is starting to fill up, before swinging himself down onto the beaten-up stool beside me. “What’s stopping the two of us from getting a camper van and driving around for a year?”
“Lack of funds? An inability not to strangle each other after more than twelve hours in a vehicle together?”
He shakes his head. “Nonsense. You’d love driving through central Nebraska with me.”
I contemplate this while Hal orders a Pbr. If I had something else going on in my life—even temporarily—would my career-related anxiety feel more manageable? More acceptable? Less isolating?
“What about your dad?” he asks.
“What about him? Should I be his uninvited houseguest?” For all I know, my father has been an uninvited houseguest in his girlfriend’s place for a long time.
“Sell your Daredevil #1—”
“No.”
“—and that’s four months’ rent and a security deposit,” Hal says.
It’s not. A collection like that is almost a living, breathing thing. It’s an entity my dad and I developed over time: the culmination of personal taste, good and bad memories, travels, business acumen.
Hal sees the collection as a placeholder for a pile of cash. He doesn’t understand the double whammy of disappointment I would trigger if my dad learned that his “prodigy” had become desperate enough to plunder his collection.
“Hey,” he says. “It’s gonna be fine.” I must look really distressed because he pulls me into another hug, which feels so good I don’t care about my still-sweaty back. “You can always crash with me if you need to.” He pauses. “Or—”
I feel that familiar flicker in my chest. Is it hope? Excitement? Recognition?
“—we could go to New York together,” he says. “I have a place to stay.”
“Then what are you still doing in Ohio?”
“Waiting for the right opportunity,” he says. “But I might have something on the horizon.”
“God, I wish I had that feeling.”
“Listen, I’m sure we can snag you a job at some terrible theme restaurant in Times Square. Or you can be one of those obnoxious bitches who works in an art gallery.”
I nod, playing along. “Okay, sure. Let’s do it.”
“I’m serious,” he says. And I kind of buy it. But I see his eyes move over my shoulder, distracted by something. He takes a step to the side. “I mean it, Samantha.”
“Great. I’m ready to go.”
“I’ll be right back,” Hal says as he backs away from me. “I need to talk to some people. Don’t leave for New York without me.”
I watch him disappear around the corner to the back room where Treehouse usually hosts bands.
Tonight, it’s set up with rows of chairs and people are already trickling in.
I didn’t think anybody really showed up to readings, aside from some pick-mes in the creative writing department at Ohio State.
But this author has drawn a decent audience.
The drinks are starting to hit me. My brain eases up on the constant replays of the conversation with my mom.
Instead, I let myself imagine this new chapter.
Panels 1-8: A full-page montage of Lydia and Jughead doing classic New York activities together: walking around Prospect Park, packed in close on a crowded subway, getting rescued by Spider-Man on the Roosevelt Island Tramway.
What kind of mere Friend with Benefits suggests a joint move to New York? Where does that fall within Romily’s quadrants? It’s bullshit, but is it meaningful bullshit? There’s a kernel of honesty in there.
I don’t recognize anyone else in the room, so I pull out my phone and do my best to look slightly overwhelmed by the number of messages I’ve received.
For the record, I’ve received exactly one message, and it’s from a nine-year-old.
waterwingluna16
r u there
its me kira
Okay, so it’s not a surprise last-minute acceptance from UCLA, but I’ll bite.
samantherpanther
It’s me, Sam
How are you messaging me?
waterwingluna16
from my tablet
i need to ask u smth
Oh God, another potential minefield, this time with text receipts. I picture Kira showing her mom our entire chat history, which, to be fair, mostly consists of variations of hi.
samantherpanther
Is it a question your dad can answer?
waterwingluna16
im at my moms
im supposed to be asleep
what if I get my period at school and it gets on my pants
samantherpanther
I bet your mom or dad could bring you some clean clothes
waterwingluna16
what if they can’t get there???
bc of work
I order another G&T and glance around again. Hal is enmeshed in an intense-looking conversation about George Saunders being overrated.
samantherpanther
if no one else can come, you message me
period rescue commmitteeee
I catch Hal’s eye, waiting for a rescue me signal. He waves to me, but I’m not sure he’s waving me over. There’s a difference.
And a completely sober me would have recognized that.
But the me who’s had several G&Ts does not. She decides to approach.
“Hey,” I say to him. “I thought you were coming back.”
Hal looks mildly annoyed at my interruption.
“The event’s going to start in a couple minutes,” says the woman on the other side of Hal.
She’s wearing a backless jumpsuit. I assume she’s an MFA student who gets off on attending these dry literary events in sexy outfits while telling everyone about her autofiction. “I’m going to use the restroom.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” I tell her gravely. “Unless you carry your own soap.”
She gives me a tight little smile. “I’ll take my chances.” Then she turns to Hal and asks, “Can you get me another drink before it starts?”
“Of course,” he says.
As she brushes past us in search of the cursed ladies’ room, she gives Hal a little arm squeeze and fucking cheek kiss.
Naturally, I trail Hal to the bar, very composed and completely rational.
“You really jumped to it,” I say. “I’ve never seen you so eager to pay for someone else’s drink.”
“I’ll get you one, too,” he says, not that I need it. “She’s the author. That’s Leen.”
The gorgeous woman pulling off a backless jumpsuit is the person who titled her book The Apotheosis of the Incomplete? Who’s too cool to have her book event at a bookstore? Who’s undaunted by my warnings about the restroom?
“She’s an NEA fellow? Is she twenty years old?”
For fuck’s sake, does every person I encounter suddenly have their shit together? This Leen person, Hal contemplating a move to New York, Mom and Perry jetting off to live their best expatriate lives? Or am I so spectacularly behind that normal people seem like superstars in comparison?
“Do you know each other?” I ask. “You seem very friendly.”
“We met at Bread Loaf last summer,” he says.
I remember Hal attending some kind of prestigious writers’ conference, but my gin-soaked brain can’t remember if he ever alluded to a torrid affair with a literary It Girl.
I stare at him while he waits for her drink. I’m trying to read between the lines of his body language. “I’m not coming over to your place tonight, am I?”
“Sam. Come on.” He’s fucking grinning at me and it’s kind of enraging. “You’re not jealous.”
The way he phrases that statement seems designed to lead me in four directions at once.
“Why did you ask me to come to this?” My voice is loud enough to make him glance around the bar nervously. “If you were hoping to—”
“You’re my plus-one, remember? Just like I’m going to your mom’s wedding with you. And I didn’t know there would be a possibility of…hanging out with her again.” He lowers his voice. “I thought she had a boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Oh. I’m here just in case he needed to create the illusion of his own desirability in front of a crush who’s much more successful than he is. This is not what I imagined when I dug my most expensive bra out of a drawer a few hours ago.
“Hey,” he says, and I don’t even bother to hold my breath this time.
I just let the words tumble out: “I didn’t think we were fucking other people right now.” My heart is racing, waiting for his response. Which could be anything. Yes, we never verbally pledged it, but it’s certainly been implied. Heavily implied.
“I haven’t been,” he exclaims. And I feel the tiniest bit better until he adds, “But we’re not labeling things, right? We’re not holding each other to some impossible standard.”
“You lost your mind when a neighbor offered me a ride,” I say. “You just suggested we move to New York together!”
“It was an idea, not a proposal,” he says.
The bartender pushes another G&T in my direction.
“Look,” Hal says, picking up Leen’s drink. “Let’s just acknowledge that it’s okay for either of us to talk to other people. For now, at least—”
“Oh, that’s very convenient for you.”
“—and we can see how we feel about it going forward. We’re both adults. We have a strong enough friendship to navigate this.”
And then this motherfucker hugs me again. “You’re the best,” he whispers before disappearing into the crowd with Leen’s drink.
I let myself sink onto a barstool. I place my fresh drink against my burning cheek, but it doesn’t help, so I take a huge gulp. That doesn’t help, either.
This is what happens when I “self-disclose.” Exactly this.
I take another swallow. At least this whole situation has helped push my mom’s news to the background. So all I need to do is rack up a few more emotionally fraught events tonight and it’ll shove my mental image of Hal and Leen right out of my mind. Like a chain reaction.
I try not to wonder what bar they’ll go to after this.
Or whether he’ll come up to her hotel room or she’ll go over to his place.
(Ordinarily I’d predict the former, but this woman didn’t bat an eye at the Treehouse bathroom.) Actually, I hope she has to experience Hal’s floor futon. It’s what both of them deserve.
My phone lights up with a notification, and for one pathetic second I think it must be Hal, texting me from the other room. Clarifying. Asking for forgiveness.
I close my eyes and summon the strength to ignore his apologies, pay my tab, and walk directly out of Treehouse in order to find a usable restroom.
I look down at my phone.
waterwingluna16
if a virgin is someone who has not done it, are babies virgins???
I burst out laughing. Someone from the other room has the nerve to shush me.
Well, I still intend to pay my tab and walk out of here in search of a bathroom. Fueled by resentment and, well, gin, I open Discord and manage to type what my inebriated brain believes to be a thoughtful response to Kira’s message.
samanthuh
You know who is a baby? MEn
Men are babbbiesss
They are garbage!!!!
Abostlue trash
I think I feel better? Aside from the fact that 90 percent of my brain is occupied with the need to pee, a sense of clarity comes over me.
I reread my own words—which poses a challenge because holy shit I’m really drunk and the clarity does not apply to my ability to read tiny text on a phone.
I say them under my breath like a mantra as I open the Lyft app and take one last hearty swig of my G&T.